‘They might have been, chief. Just a thought. But just supposing Piper was capable of carrying out – or ordering – retribution back then, is it a big stretch to imagine he might resort to murder to get his hands on a painting as valuable as the Fragonard Spring that Charlie Porteous had in his possession?’
Grace considered this for some moments before responding. ‘It’s an interesting hypothesis, Norman, but as you just said, a bit of a stretch. It sounds from what you’ve said that Piper’s MO is finding long-lost works of art around the world, ostensibly returning them to their rightful owners, and either collecting reward money or being duplicitous, having them expertly copied by forgers, retaining originals and passing off forgeries. There’s nothing to suggest he is a brazen art thief, is there? Does he have any past form for burglary or suspected burglary?’
‘Well – no, chief,’ Potting replied reluctantly.
‘It doesn’t make any sense that someone of his wealth would need to resort to murder.’ He looked at Wilde. ‘What do you think, Velvet?’
‘The only reason I can think of, sir, is if he knew the whereabouts of some or all of the other three Fragonard paintings in the series. Or indeed had them himself.’
‘He told you he didn’t, right?’ Grace pressed.
‘He alluded to that, yes.’
‘But he might not have been telling the truth,’ Potting added.
Grace nodded. ‘The only way we’d find that out is by searching his house, and from what you’re telling me, we don’t have anything like enough to obtain a warrant. I think we should add him to our list of POIs, but with no further action for the moment.’ He looked again at Potting and Wilde. They nodded agreement.
51
Thursday, 31 October
The upper level of the car park of the Miller and Carter, formerly the Black Lion pub, in Patcham village at the northern extremity of the city of Brighton and Hove, had been the scene of one of Brighton’s most notorious murders.
It was where, on 12 January 1976, former glamour model Barbara Gaul, wife of millionaire businessman John Gaul, was blasted in the back with a double-barrelled twelve-bore shotgun by two men he had hired to do the hit. She died two months later from her injuries, but while the hitmen were subsequently arrested and given life prison sentences, John Gaul fled to Malta and evaded justice for over a decade before eventually dying, still a free man, from a heart attack.
This secluded car park, accessed by a steep ramp and shielded by bushes, was the location where Robert Kilgore had chosen to meet Archie Goff. The American, always scrupulously punctual, had arrived twenty minutes before his 8 p.m. appointment, reversing his Tesla into a space against the rear of the car park, giving him a clear view of every vehicle arriving. Quickly, he removed a traffic cone from the rear of the car, placing it at the front of the empty space immediately to his right.
Thursdays, traditionally pay day, was a big night out for many, and the car park was filling up rapidly, as a steady stream of vehicles flowed in. Kilgore figured he was unlikely to be noticed by any of the customers arriving, dressed up for their evening out, looking forward to meeting friends and having drinks and a good meal. No one was going to give a toss about a solitary old guy in a car in the dark smoking a cigarette.
He clocked each of the headlights flaring up the ramp: a Porsche; a Jag; a Mini; a plumber’s van. Then, finally, a tired old Astra, its front number plate cracked and at a wonky angle, the exhaust shot. Instantly identifying the car from its registration and from the description Goff had given him over the phone, Kilgore flashed his headlights, once, then opened his door, jumped out, removed the cone and climbed back in, putting the cone in the passenger footwell. Goff drove straight in and wound his window down.
Kilgore lowered his, checking there was no one in earshot. ‘Are we good, Mr Goff?’ he asked.
‘We’re good.’
‘You’re all clear what you need to do?’
‘Yep, I’m on it.’
Kilgore lifted the bubble-wrapped copy of the Fragonard off the passenger seat and passed it through the window to Goff, followed by a burner phone. ‘It’s got one number programmed in. Text it when you’re done and you’ll get back my instructions for the handover.’
‘Leave it to me. That’s when you’ll pay me the balance, yeah?’
Kilgore said nothing for a moment, he just sat staring at the old burglar’s face. There was something about the man he hadn’t cared for when he’d first met him for breakfast at the Grand Hotel, something shifty and evasive in his eyes, and he saw that same look again now. In addition to paying the bail, Mr Piper had agreed a £2,000 fee. ‘That’s when we’ll pay you the balance, Mr Goff.’
52
Friday, 1 November
Archie Goff drove slowly up the steep residential street of Mackie Crescent in Patcham. It was, coincidentally, just half a mile or so from where he’d been handed the painting last night. As he passed a row of tennis courts to his right, the Kiplings’ house appeared on his left, on a street corner, and he clocked that the driveway was empty, apart from Harry Kipling’s pick-up. Neither Harry’s Volvo estate nor Freya’s Fiat 500 were there. Good.
From the daily surveillance he had carried out this week, he had established that Harry Kipling left for work at 7.30 a.m., pretty much on the nose, every morning, and Freya Kipling around twenty minutes later. She always returned around 4.30 p.m., with their droopy-looking son with his headphones. Yesterday she had gone out again, twenty minutes later, dressed like she was going to some kind of fitness class. And yesterday, instead of 5 p.m., her husband returned closer to 5.30 p.m. and unloaded a bunch of groceries from his car.
The only time Harry had come back in the morning had been on Monday, when he shot home around midday to pick up some building supplies.
Turning left in front of the house and heading up the hill, with small houses and bungalows on either side of the road, Archie found a parking space between two cars. They were outside the yellow-line zone here, so he didn’t need to worry about the car getting ticketed and logged.
He climbed out, wearing a hi-vis jacket, black trousers, trainers and a baseball cap. Then he lifted the bubble-wrapped painting, now in a layer of brown paper, from the rear seat, along with a clipboard, locked the car, then walked casually away, parcel and clipboard under his arm, and back down towards the Kiplings’ house.
It was a tip an old lag in prison had given him many years ago, that if you didn’t want to arouse curiosity in a neighbourhood, then wear a yellow hi-vis jacket and carry a clipboard, it would make you pretty much invisible.
Mackie Crescent was deserted, apart from a tubby elderly woman on a mobility scooter, heading away from him, down the hill on the pavement on the far side of the road, along by the tennis courts. Heading to the shops in the village, he guessed, patting his jacket pocket for the copy of the back door key he’d had cut from the wax impression he’d taken when he’d broken into the house last Saturday night, although he guessed it might not be of any use now. He was still annoyed at himself for breaking that rear windowpane. He’d intended to simply cut it out, reach in and unlock the security chain in place on the back door, then re-putty the glass back. But he’d not been expecting the pane to be rotten – certainly not in a builder’s home – and it had fallen out, taking him by surprise.
He was pretty sure that the locks would now have been changed on all the doors, but no problem. In another pocket he carried a few pieces of kit, one a tool for picking just about any commercially available door or window lock, the other items for removing security chains.